


sticky fingers

by bullroars



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Kleptomania, Peter's a dirty thief, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 22:16:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2085249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bullroars/pseuds/bullroars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>peter's not a kleptomaniac, really.  he just.  really, really likes stuff.  </p><p>(or, four things peter steals and one thing he's given.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	sticky fingers

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Загребущие ручки](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139645) by [MouseGemini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MouseGemini/pseuds/MouseGemini)



> i loved this fucking movie so fucking much gosh

sticky fingers

 

i.  Peter’s either dancing or stealing.  He can’t help it, it’s the way he’s wired.  Sitting still just isn’t his _thing,_ and if his feet aren’t moving, his hands sure are.

Besides, he doesn’t mean any harm.  He just… likes stuff, and likes to keep his skills sharp, and it’s just _fun_ to sneak around and see what he can fit in his pockets.

Once the rest of the Guardians—okay, so maybe Peter’s the only one who calls them that but whatever, it’ll catch on eventually—move onto the _Milano,_ though, his habits come under fire.

“You can’t steal that,” Gamora says, appalled.  Peter hides the statue under his coat.

“Steal what?”  he says, innocently.  “I don’t see anything worth stealing around here.  Rocket?”

“Nope,” Rocket grins, and yeah, he’s Peter’s favorite.  “Don’t see nothing.  Groot?”

“I am Groot,” pipes the pot in Drax’s arms.  (Groot’s finally gotten a little too heavy for Rocket to carry, but no one really wants to leave him alone on the ship.) 

Gamora raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.  “ _Peter._ Put it back.”

“I don’t—”

“Friend Peter,” Drax says, face scrunched together like it gets when he’s trying to understand a metaphor or translate a joke.  “Is that not a statue in your pocket, or are you just happy to see us?”

Peter closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten.

\---

Three planets, four priceless artifacts, two angry mobs, and five arguments later, Gamora tells Peter that if she catches him slipping something that isn’t his into his pockets again, she’ll start breaking his fingers.

Peter believes her, and quietly starts going crazy. 

\---

 ii. Since he’s forbidden from stealing from other people—it’s not even like he’s ruining lives or anything, okay, Gamora, he’s just… grabbing little trinkets, maybe some ancient piece of a culture’s history, it’s no big deal, Indiana Jones did it and they called _him_ a hero—Peter, naturally, starts lifting things from his friends.

He really can’t help it.  He’s good for _weeks_.  His fingers itch and twitch and he puts all of that energy into cleaning up the _Milano_ —with the help of a blacklight, because he _loves_ their disgusted yowls when he shows them just what they’re sitting on—and fixing things and teaching Groot how to dance. 

It’s not enough.  One day (or night, whatever), everyone else is sleeping and Peter’s on watch/make sure we don’t wander into a black hole duty, and he happens to walk past Rocket’s pile of explosive junk and he can’t help it, he just sticks his hand into the pile and pulls out something small and hard and shoves it into his pocket before he can talk himself into putting it back.

Peter doesn’t look at what he took all night, so when Rocket shouts, at the asscrack of whatever passes for dawn in space, “ _Hey,_ who took my Thunderbug?” he can successfully feign ignorance.

“ _Thunderbug?_ ” Peter laughs.  “That’s a stupid name.  What is it?”                    

“Something dangerous and explosive, no doubt.”  Gamora’s still blinking sleep out her eyes, shaking her head at Rocket.  “I am sure no one took your Thunderbug, Rocket.”

“Yeah,” Peter says, “everything you make blows up.  Sure you didn’t leave it lying around somewhere, like you do with all of your _bombs_?”

“’s not a bomb,” Rocket mutters, put out.  “’s a miniature taser.”  Peter very carefully arranges his pocket so it’s _not touching him_. 

“I’m sure it’ll turn up, buddy,” Peter says, and promptly hides the Thunderbug in his bunk, tucked safely between a worn comic book and an old tin lunchbox.

\---

iii. Peter swipes one of Drax’s knives without thinking.  Not the wickedly curved one, Drax’s favorite, but a much smaller one, just as sharp but less a meat cleaver and more of a little shiv.

He loves the way Drax fights, knives flashing.  It’s a bit like a dance, Peter thinks, or a bit like an old movie, the scarred hero dazzling his enemies with his mastery over steel.  Drax can take down whoever he wants with his knives and it’s _badass._

Peter waits until he’s on watch again and practices, dancing around and cutting at the air, a hundred shadowy enemies with burning eyes who gurgle and scream for mercy—

(Okay, yeah, Peter knows he’s ridiculous.  He’s aware.  Just roll with it.)

A thunk and a clatter behind him stops Peter in his tracks, hastily shoving the little knife up his sleeves.  He’s panting and flushed when Drax pokes his head up from the rec room.

“Peter,” he says, a sleepy rumble.  “Are you alright?”

Peter grins.  _Shit._ “Yeah, yep.  Just fine!”

“You are breathing heavily,” Drax observes.  “Have you been--?”

“Dancing,” Peter says quickly.  “Just dancing.  Go back to sleep, big guy, I’m totally fine.”

Drax nods agreeably.  “I am glad,” he says, then pauses.  “Though, Peter, there is no music.”

“Don’t need to hear it to dance.”  Peter taps his chest quickly, nervously.  He feels—wrong, lying to Drax.  Drax is big and maybe a little literal but he’s nice, in his own way.  “I’ve got it right here.”

“In your thorax?” 

Peter laughs.  “Yeah, Drax, in my thorax.”

“Humans are very odd,” Drax mutters, and heads back down to sleep.  Peter relaxes, and doesn’t practice knife-fighting when he’s on watch again.

\---

iv. Gamora has a lot of rings, one on each finger, and, naturally, Peter wants to see if he can get away with one.  

They’ve been a team for a few months now, and Peter’s made off with something from just about everyone.  Knives, bits of weaponry, once a pair of Drax’s pants because they were huge and soft and Peter had been _freezing,_ okay, it wasn’t weird, but he's never dared to take anything from Gamora herself.

He just—really likes those rings.  They suit her, polished and gleaming, each one carved delicately with strange symbols. 

So Peter gets Gamora dancing, grabs her hand, and works a ring off her finger while she’s laughing along to “Hooked on a Feeling.”

Gamora doesn’t notice.  Peter feels—well, not bad, because he’s too busy being pleased with himself—but a little guilty maybe, but he pockets it and doesn't pretend that it just fell off, hand it back to Gamora, and keep on dancing.

He hides it in his little backpack, with the Thunderbug and Drax’s knife, a rusty spanner and one of the stones from Groot's pot, and only looks at it when he’s alone at night, turning it over in his fingers.  It feels good.  Solid.  Like Gamora, just like the Thunderbug feels like Rocket’s crazy and the knife feels like Drax's strength, like his friends, and it’s good, it’s really good.

Peter’s got issues.  He knows that.  He’s still got one of Yondu’s little bobbleheads, a few cracked gems, statues, a pair of handcuffs, bits and pieces of all of the places he’s been to, things that he touches and holds and uses to remember.

Gamora’s ring gets a special place in his bag, tucked safely in one of the side pockets where it won’t get lost or fall through one of the backpack’s many holes.

Two weeks later, the ring is gone.  Peter doesn’t panic, and waits for the explosion. 

Nothing happens, and the next night, there’s a different ring—smaller, smoother, but still very, very Gamora—in his side pocket.  Peter wisely doesn’t mention it.

\---

1\.  “Peter,” Gamora says, the rest of his crew behind her, “we need to talk.” 

Peter looks behind her, realizes he’s blocked in, and gulps.  “Please don’t break my fingers.”

Gamora smiles a little.  “I’m not going to break your fingers, Peter.”

“Aw.”  Rocket looks put out.  “Not even the little ones?”

“No,” says Gamora, and Peter says, “You’re a little too interested in breaking my fingers, y’know, you could show some compassion or something.”

“You stole my Thunderbug,” Rocket snaps accusingly.  “You don’t get compassion.”

It’s probably a bad idea to lie, especially since Gamora’s been in his stuff.  Their stuff.  The stuff that used to be theirs but now is in Peter’s room.  Whatever.  “Okay,” he says, trying for apologetic, “yeah, I did.  It was really cool-looking and my fingers were itchy and I wanted—”

“Wanted what?”  Gamora asks, curious.

“To have it,” Peter finishes lamely.  “Look, you can have all your stuff back, okay, I didn’t mean to take all of it, it just—happened.”

Everyone—even Groot, who’s almost big enough to leave his pot now, that’s scary, Rocket’ll probably have Groot kick his ass and it’ll _hurt_ —looks at him.

Peter spreads his hands.  “I’m a Ravager, okay?  It’s kinda what we do.”

“You’re not a Ravager anymore,” Gamora says sharply. 

“Yeah,” Rocket agrees, “you’re one of us, and we _don’t_ steal from each other.”

“I caught you with my toothbrush three days ago!”

“That’s different, I put the toothbrush back.”

Peter throws his hands up.  “I’m sorry, okay?  I won’t do it again, I just—”

“Peter,” says Drax, “we are your friends.  You can tell us what is causing you such distress.”

“I’m not distressed,” Peter grumbles, “I’m Indiana goddamn Jones.”

A series of blank looks.  Peter hisses.  “I just, like, like stuff.  Your stuff.  It—feels like you guys.”  Peter stops, reconsiders.  “That sounds wrong, but whatever, I’m going with it.”  Peter doesn’t have the words to say that he left Earth with a backpack full of trinkets and that’s it, he had nothing for years and years until he start Ravaging and taking things for himself.  He’s been shot at, chased around, stolen from his home and his family, and that backpack full of junk has been through it all.  It’s _his,_ and it’s all he’s got. 

Gamora is the first one to smile.  “I think I dropped a ring down the drain,” she says.  “I doubt I’ll ever see it again.”

Peter stares.

“That knife was ill-suited to me anyway,” Drax adds.  “It was too small for me, but it should suit your puny frame quite well.”

Rocket looks from Gamora to Drax to Peter.  He heaves a sigh.  “I hope you electrocute yourself with that thing,” he says, “I really, really do.”

Peter grins so widely he thinks his face is gonna crack.  “I haven’t tried to use it yet,” he admits.  “I’m kinda scared.”

Rocket bares all of his teeth in a laughing grin.  “Good.  Be afraid, little man.” 

“This doesn’t mean you can go around stealing things from people who aren’t us,” Gamora says warningly.  “No priceless stones, no cursed statues, no artifacts—”

“Ah, you’re no fun,” Peter says, but he’s still smiling.

“I am Groot,” Groot pipes, and stretches a long limb out to Peter.  A flower’s sprouting in his palm, pale blue, and Groot gives him a woody grin. 

Peter blinks.  “Groot?”

“I am Groot,” says Groot encouragingly, and Peter looks around at his friends.

“What, you shy all of a sudden?”  Rocket laughs.  “Take the damn thing, otherwise he’ll sulk all day.”

Peter smiles, and carefully picks the flower from Groot’s palm.  “Thank you, Groot,” he says.  “This is why you’re my favorite.”

The rest of the Guardians—still hasn’t caught on, not yet, but it will—erupt into arguing over who should be Peter’s favorite and why Peter isn’t any of _their_ favorites, and so on and so on, and when Peter gets back to his room he presses the flower between a couple of repair manuals and carefully puts it into his backpack, right beside the rest of his little treasures. 


End file.
